<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>there's an ocean in my head by renecdote</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28580799">there's an ocean in my head</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote'>renecdote</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>9-1-1 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Christopher Diaz needs a hug, Cuddling, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I mean that's what's happening Chris just doesn't realise it, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Tsunami, Sort of? - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:22:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,025</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28580799</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The water is inside of him and it doesn’t want to come out. He knows he’s at school, he knows what is happening around him, but he can’t stop crying. He can’t swim. He can’t get his head above the surface to breathe.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He’s drowning.</i>
</p>
<p>Christopher has a flashback at school. Eddie and Buck look after him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>156</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there's an ocean in my head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for a warm up prompt by dianaraven on tumblr.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>There is a firetruck parked in the car park at school. It has a big, white 136 on the side. Mr Denman says they’re learning about fire safety today and these nice firefighters have come to teach them. Christopher stops at the top of the front steps; he wants to go further, wants to follow the rest of his class down to crowd around the gleaming red engine, but he’s frozen. His legs won’t move and his arms won’t move and the only reason he knows his heart is still beating in his chest is because it’s suddenly so fast it hurts. He feels cold and hot and tingly all over.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Christopher?” Mr Denman is smiling at him, his voice more distant than his hovering hand. “Do you need help with the steps?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Christopher can’t breathe.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He can’t breathe and the water is coming and he’s going to drown.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They’re all going to drown.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He stumbles back, crutches swinging wildly—he has to get away, he has to get to Buck, he has to—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Christopher?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Buck was <em>right there</em>. The firetruck was <em>right there</em>, he was on top of it and now he’s drowning—he can’t swim—he can’t—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Things happen very fast. Movement and voices and then silence, stillness, like the calm after a monstrous wave, the moment of peace before it comes rushing back and steals him away. Christopher’s face is wet; it takes him a moment to realise that he’s crying. His hands and arms are wet too, but not from tears; there are long, red lines that he doesn’t remember scratching.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Mr Denman isn’t there anymore, but Mrs Halloway is. Chris likes her, she’s nice, but he shies away even as she tells him, “Your dad is on the way, honey.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Christopher cries harder. He almost makes himself sick with it, sobbing until he hiccups, lungs bruised and aching, working hard to produce tears that have stopped coming. The water is inside of him and it doesn’t want to come out. He knows he’s at school, he knows what is happening around him, but he can’t stop crying. He can’t swim. He can’t get his head above the surface to breathe.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s drowning.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Or maybe he already drowned and this is just what’s left of him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When his dad arrives, it’s with hurried footsteps and clipped words. Then Christopher is in his arms, clinging weakly, and all the words are soft, murmured against the top of his hair, a jumble of Spanish and English that doesn’t quite make sense. Only a few phrases make it through.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re okay.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And, “I’ve got you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And, “You’re safe, mijo, it’s over.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But it isn’t. It can’t be over, not when it’s right there in Christopher’s head. He still feels submerged, waterlogged, even as his father lifts him into his arms and carries him out of the school. Even as they drive home and he’s swaddled in blankets on the couch—shivering, but no fever, which should be good but just makes his father frown—and Dad cuddles him while they watch Pixar movies. He drinks juice and eats a sandwich and stares at the TV. He sleeps a bit, maybe, because when he opens his eyes, his dad is gone and Buck is there, smiling at him over the arm of the couch.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey, Chris,” he says, and it’s quiet, but it sounds normal, not like he’s talking through the water in Christopher’s ears. “How are you feeling?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There’s an ocean in my head,” Christopher says. For some reason, his own voice surprises him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Buck’s smile turns sad. “Yeah,” he says, quieter now, like it’s a secret. “There’s an ocean in my head too.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t like it.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s a whisper; a secret for a secret.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Buck’s hand is warm on the top of his head, brushing back curls. “That’s okay,” he says. “I don’t like my ocean much either.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Is it the same ocean? Christopher wonders. Buck talks about it like it’s his; like he owns it, or it owns him, not shared with anyone else. But Christopher has an ocean too, and they were in the tsunami together, the wave got inside both of them, so maybe it’s the same ocean. Maybe if he searches hard enough, he’ll be able to find Buck there. Maybe he’ll be able to find everyone else who was lost as well.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Does everyone have an ocean?” he wonders.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t know. Maybe.” Buck is thoughtful, mulling the question over. “I think your dad has a desert.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They used to live in a desert. Christopher thinks he would like it better, if his ocean was a desert. But then Buck would be all alone in his ocean, so he should come to, and they could all share the sand and the wind and the scrubby green plants. There ares storms in the desert, but no waves. He’d never have to feel waterlogged again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He feels less waterlogged now; when he sits up, it doesn’t slosh in his head. But he’s tired. Exhausted. And his arms sting—he only realises when he bumps one against the couch cushion and it hurts. They’re bandaged neatly—he thinks he remembers his dad doing that—pristine and white. Christopher feels suddenly like crying again; all the water that didn’t drain out his ears while he slept making a run for his eyes. Maybe if he cries enough, it will all come out and the ocean will be gone.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But the tears don’t come. Not properly. A few slip out, but Christopher is too tired to cry, all his muscles weak and wobbly like jelly. Buck hugs him, and he lets that happen, until his dad appears, phone in one hand, worried frown dragging his face down, and Christopher is handed from one adult to another. His arms hurt and his head is aching and he whimpers when Buck moves to get up.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Stay,” his dad says, reaching out, putting into word and action what Christopher can’t manage.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>So Buck stays.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And Dad stays.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Slowly, over hours or days or decades, the tide recedes; and when it does, they’re all still there.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are love 💛 You can also find me on tumblr <a href="https://renecdote.tumblr.com/">here</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>